


Midnight Decisions

by theotherdesanta



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Brokeback trikey, Love Hurts, M/M, Michael finds more ways to drown his issues, Sad Fluff, Sandy Shores Snowstorm, Sorry Not Sorry, Swearing, Trevor with a beard, Trikey - Freeform, WHY DID I WRITE THIS?!, tragic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theotherdesanta/pseuds/theotherdesanta
Summary: Stay or go? In the case of leaving your wife for Trevor Philips...it's always Go. 
(With help from T_Philips we managed to come up with a better summary for this fic. Short but sweet as they say)





	

**Author's Note:**

> How many times can I apologize for not updating Sharmoota....a lot but right now I'mma little busy apologizing for this piece of tragic, heart-ruining crap 
> 
> Basically, due to recent events I've been blasting Sia's "Midnight Decisions" to drown out the sadness and somehow it led to...this. 
> 
> I haven't been in the right mindset for Writer Dabbles or Sharmoota or BBB, so I just thought, put the pain to good use and make something from it. 
> 
> Again, I'm sorry, as soon as things clear up over here I will be right back on those, especially when, ironically, I wanna know what happens as much as the next person!  
> \--
> 
> News wise, I'm still working on Ideas and recently I've had a few, one which is a collab with my friend where Mike introduces Trevor to fruit because he's a gross asshole who probably hasn't seen an apple in forever. 
> 
> Another and I totally forgot about this one for so long: Trevor has a 27-year-old son that he's previously been denied access to, and in the time he's been forced to live with his grandparents and watch his drug addict mother attempt to kill herself multiple times, the guy is now, understandably damaged, he blames Trevor for her addiction, for leaving them with no option but to live off her parents and has grown up resenting the man he never knew tried for so long to gain access to his child.  
> The man a highly intelligent psychopath, he knows how to seduce and entice people, and makes Michael his pawn in killing Trevor. 
> 
> The last idea is that Trevor loses his arm in an accident and has to rely on his friends for help, sad fluff with the unholy trio family vibe thrown in.  
> Yes, there will be crying.  
> \--
> 
> Finally, I just wanna thank all of you for the support and say that I love you guys. And as always, Leave comments and kudos if you liked this fic and any fics to come in the near future. 
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me...I have to go cry out the last of these Michael feels.

It's the liquor, the aged consumer poison coursing through his system that is blurring the lines harbouring the promises to remain faithful to his spouse, the impure thoughts swirling behind the man's wanton gaze playing the morphometrically drink stirrer, the two olives artfully decorating his glass coated conscious brushing the inner walls of Michael's skull as he stumbles back an forth in what appears to be a somewhat inebriated pace. 

The comforting remembrance of previous affairs dulls the thunderous heartbeats vibrating throughout his chest, creating a soundless buzz which envelopes his skin like a cool fire, devastating everything in it's wake amidst the following realisation. 

Transparent beads of icy sweat form on his temples, he swiftly wipes them away using the back of a meaty hand yet they are replaced instantaneously whilst Michael cocks his head to the right, scanning the one functioning clock before surveying the rest of the dingy motel room. 

Egg-shell white walls, the paper failing to differentiate between flaking and being so water heavy that pockets have formed on the farthest side of the bedroom and the sheet has simply given way, a large musky smelling stain and slight moulding indicating the extent of the damage. 

Ironically, the carpet is dryer than the fucking Sahara Desert. 

He scrunches his toes against the fat, crusty tufts of orange flooring, trying to force himself out of his stupor long enough to reconsider the choice he is making by standing here, in a shady motel room, in the middle of nowhere in the dead of fucking night, waiting for somebody who could easily walk through the door, pop two rounds into his chest and walk back out as if nothing fucking happened. 

Another good dose of irony is that Michael actually has faith in the person to show up and come through for him, like a puppy eagerly waiting on it's master to return home he leans onto the bedside table, facing the unchained, shittily installed wooden front door, eyes bordering tearful from the amount of alcohol he's consumed in the past three hours. 

The level of anxiety is astounding, Michael hasn't felt this uncertain and frightful since the big game of 1980 where he had to go head to head against the rival teams star player, beast of a boy twice his own size with a body like a god damn bulldozer and shoulders you could use as a battering ram. 

Michael shrugs off the sudden sting shooting up his arm brought on by the memory of the accident that robbed him of his football career and clasps a hand over his left shoulder, wincing as he cracks his neck and rotates the limb until he feels the smallest of pops and relaxes momentarily. 

His eye's fall on the growing intensity of the snowstorm happening on the opposite side of the bedroom window, when he arrived it was nothing more than a thin wisp of ice occasionally drifting down to put a thin layer of ice on the windshields of cars and the random homeless bum, now the wisps are something worth paying attention to, being thicker and wider and finally building atop each other as they hit the ground. 

Anyone with a mind for their own safety would go home immediately, cancel whatever plans they have and go be with their loved ones to enjoy Blaine Counties first snowstorm in 15 years. 

Michael knows too well he will no longer have that option if he goes through with tonight, if he stays a minute longer and neglects his marriage for another time, he's had plenty of chances to repair things between Amanda and himself, yet something keeps him coming back to Sandy Shores, to that seedy little motel room where the wallpaper tears and the flooring scrapes the soles of his feet and the bedsheets irritate his skin but tonight is when he's finally had the guts to make that call. 

Instead of laying alone in a splatter of cum and Bikini bombshell porn with a cup of coffee on standby, he's going to lay beside someone who wants to wake up to his face, to his rough, sleep-laden voice, to his love handles that spill over the waistband of his boxers in all the worst ways...he's going to have somebody who loves him unconditionally walk through that door and make the pain of 46 long years disappear. 

_“There's still time to back out”_ His conscious says, attempting at reason. _“Fuck sake, man. Think about thi-”_

Michael doesn't give himself the chance to finish as he rotates back and snatches up the half empty bottle of cheap raspberry vodka off the bedspread, twisting the cap and chugging it back, fighting the urge to dry heave as the strong burn cascades down his windpipe. 

That's precisely it...he doesn't want to think about it. 

He wants to do what Michael De Santa does best, to drown his problems in other people and let them pay off his lifelong tab of mistakes. 

_“Do the right thing, Michael. Make yourself happy”_ Another voice, deeper and more genuine and gravelly from the booze fills his ears, a warm gust of air turning his ears a light pink. 

As if on cue, Michael turns and the clock reads '00:00'. 

There is a knock coming from the other side of the door and he finds himself going rigid, with a short burst of energy Michael announces the door is unlocked, subconsciously his eyes flicker to his grey suit pants which are neatly folded on a neighbouring chair, the outline of a pistol visible under the designer fabric. 

The door opens and in steps a frost dusted Trevor Philips, wearing a heavy, dark green winter coat and boots, brown, possibly real fur trapper hat adorning his head. 

Casually, Trevor throws off his coat and rips off the hat before turning to look at his crime partner, a full, yellow-toothed grin is obscured by his thick, peppery beard and he lets it fall into a neutral expression which has Michael's hackles on edge. 

By now he is visibly shaking in the presence of Trevor who just stands before him, clad in his camo hunting pants and trademark dirty, graying white T-shirt which shows off his beautifully sculpted forearms, the RIP tattoo less of an eyesore these days as it sits proudly atop his skin. 

Michael shuffles on his heels, standing the short distance in nothing but a pair of black boxers and a tattered bathrobe he should've thrown away years ago, but kept for sentimental reasons. 

He tries to speak, but his jaw fails him and he can only stare like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck. 

“C'mere Baby” Trevor drawls, extending his arm and curling his fingers in a gesture for Michael to move closer. 

He does, absent-mindedly scuttling until he is close enough to be pulled into Trevor's bone crunching embrace. 

The two lock eyes and in a split second their mouths are colliding in an earth shattering kiss that has Michael caught off guard but in a way that gets his blood rushing. 

Trevor's arms wrap around his shoulders as Michael's come up under his arms and he winds his fingers into Trevor's back, they cling to each other for dear life, breathing in the others scent. 

There is a moment of silence as the men stop to get vital oxygen back inside their lungs, however, once T deems himself ready to continue, he recoils far enough to watch his own hands take hold of Michael's shoulders and slip beneath the ugly, fraying bathrobe, gently pushing it away until gravity is able to do the rest and bring it to the ground around Michael's ankles. 

In an instant Trevor's mouth is latching itself to the nape of his neck, sucking and gnawing he threatens to draw blood, but Michael just pushes against the feeling and silently begs for Trevor to grab his hair, nuzzling the younger man's palm which the crown of his skull sits in.

“You made the right choice, Cupcake” Trevor growls, out of nowhere pulling away and spinning Michael toward the bed, giving one hard shove he sends the man face first into the musty sheets. 

“You're not gonna regret this, Mikey. I'm gonna make you feel so fuckin' good” 

Michael replies with a short, happy chuckle, rubbing his cheek into the mattress with a smile plastered across his face as Trevor starts working on his belt, grunting with frustration. 

After a second he's grinding into Michael's clothed ass, biting as his throat again as the larger man sinks into the bed, still smiling as tears begin to spill from his tired eyes, he takes Trevor's hand with a sigh and presses his ass back into his crotch. 

“I'mma love you like you ain't ever been loved before, Sugartits” Michael is practically beaming now, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his friend starts tugging down his boxers. 

 

“I know you will, Trev” 

The end.


End file.
